And from the shore their course they take,
And swiftly down the running lake
They follow the blind Boy.

But soon they move with softer pace;
So have ye seen the fowler chase
On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast
A youngling of the wild duck's nest
With deftly-lifted oar;

Or as the wily sailors crept

To seize (while on the Deep it slept)
The hapless creature which did dwell
Erewhile within the dancing shell,
They steal upon their prey.

With sound the least that can be made,
They follow, more and more afraid,
More cautious as they draw more near;
But in his darkness he can hear,
And guesses their intent.

"Lei-gha-Lei-gha"-he then cried out, "Lei-gha-Lei-gha"-with eager shout; Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, And what he meant was, "Keep away, And leave me to myself!"

Alas! and when he felt their hands-
You've often heard of magic wands,
That with a motion overthrow
A palace of the proudest show,

Or melt it into air:

So all his dreams-that inward light

With which his soul had shone so bright-
All vanished ;—'twas a heartfelt cross
To him, a heavy, bitter loss,

As he had ever known.

But hark! a gratulating voice,
With which the very hills rejoice:
"Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly
Have watched the event, and now can see
That he is safe at last.

And then, when he was brought to land,
Full sure they were a happy band,
Which, gathering round, did on the banks
Of that great Water give God thanks,
And welcomed the poor Child.

And in the general joy of heart
The blind Boy's little dog took part;
He leapt about, and oft did kiss
His master's hands in sign of bliss,
With sound like lamentation.

But most of all, his Mother dear,
She who had fainted with her fear,
Rejoiced when waking she espies
The Child; when she can trust her eyes,
And touches the blind Boy.

She led him home, and wept amain,
When he was in the house again :

Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;
She kissed him-how could she chastise?
She was too happy far.

Thus, after he had fondly braved
The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved ;
And, though his fancies had been wild,
Yet he was pleased and reconciled
To live in peace on shore.

And in the lonely Highland dell
Still do they keep the Turtle-shell;
And long the story will repeat
Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,
And how he was preserved.

Note. It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages, that a boy, son of the captain of a Man-of-War, seated himself in a Turtle-shell, and floated in it from the shore to his father's ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. In deference to the opinion of a Friend, I have substituted such a shell for the less elegant vessel in which my blind Voyager did actually entrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch Leven, as was related to me by an eye-witness. [This eye-witness was George Mackrath, for many years parish-clerk of Grasmere. The vessel was in reality a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the shore of the Loch.] See Life, I., 209.

THE FEMALE VAGRANT.*

"By Derwent's side my father dwelt—a man
Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred;
And I believe that, soon as I began

To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,
And in his hearing there my prayers I said:
And afterwards, by my good father taught,
I read, and loved the books in which I read;
For books in every neighbouring house I sought,
And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.

A little croft we owned-a plot of corn,

A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme,
And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn

Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime.
Can I forget our freaks at shearing time!

My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied ;
The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime;
The swans that with white chests upreared in pride
Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side!

The staff I well remember which upbore

The bending body of my active sire ;

His seat beneath the honied sycamore

Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;

*This is an extract from a poem written in 1793, and published entire in the later editions of the Author's works, under the title of "Guilt and Sorrow, or Incidents on Salisbury Plain." The first twelve stanzas given here were not in the Edition of 1815, but they are prefixed to give completeness to the narrative.

When market-morning came, the neat attire

With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked;

The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked.

The suns of twenty summers danced along,—
Too little marked how fast they rolled away :
But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong,
My father's substance fell into decay:
We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day
When Fortune might put on a kinder look ;
But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they;

He from his old hereditary nook

Must part; the summons came ;-our final leave we took.

It was indeed a miserable hour

When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,
Peering above the trees, the steeple tower
That on his marriage day sweet music made!
Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid
Close by my mother in their native bowers:
Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed ;—
I could not pray :-through tears that fell in showers
Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!

There was a Youth whom I had loved so long,
That when I loved him not I cannot say :

'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song
We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May ;
When we began to tire of childish play,